


Dust, Decay, and Mako

by timeless_alice



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Aftermath of Experiments, Gen, Implied Body Horror, Introspection, Scars, i don't know what im doing really, this is really prose heavy bc im the way i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeless_alice/pseuds/timeless_alice
Summary: Vincent's self imposed exile from the rest of the world is interrupted by a young man who needs help escaping from this place.Or: Zack Fair opens the coffin for a second time.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	Dust, Decay, and Mako

Time didn't mean much to Vincent as he slept. He had a few moments of consciousness, just enough to remind him that he still existed within a world he no longer wished to be apart of, before he fell back to sleep and the years would pass him by without a soul wondering what had become of him.

No one much looked in the coffin anyway, hidden away as it was in the basement of Shinra Manor. Which made it odd when it was opened twice in a short span of time; he was not sure how long it was between each visit. It could have been years, though it felt more like weeks or perhaps even months. He remembered the face of the young man, with thick black hair and a scarred jawline and large eyes that shone an unnatural shade of blue. He had looked friendly, if a little apologetic and a good deal embarrassed, in a way that some young men were when he had investigated what was inside the coffin the first time.

The rusty hinges had creaked when the lid was opened, echoing against the walls of the still and silent manor, causing him to flinch at the sound that grated in his ears and sent his skin crawling. He narrowed his eyes against the sudden flood of light, however dim it was as it chased out the darkness, and he kept his gazed locked on the high ceiling of the basement. It did not take long for him to adjust, more akin to one waking up in the morning than one who had spent years in darkness; his mind lingered on that fact for a moment, before he stored it away lest he dwell on it too long and find himself pressing against the edge of the abyss. Just outside his field of vision there was someone else, the person who had opened his tomb and drawn him back to the world of the living. He could hear them breathing: that low, shuddering pant of someone trying to stave off panic, that fought against the tightness in the throat as if the lungs would never get enough air. Something he was all too familiar with.

Beyond the musty scent of dust and decay, the air was rich with the overpowering presence of mako. His nose twitched with it, with how sharp and chemical it was. He hadn't even been aware that mako had much of a smell at all - though he had been in enough reactors to have the memory of it, a detail that always faded to the back of the mind - let alone one that could be so strong.

He shifted shoulders that had not moved properly in decades and with the slow deliberation that came with reminding his body exactly how to move, he reached out a hand to grasp at the edge of the coffin's opening. Fingers curled, as if nails - claws, even - would rip through his gloves to dig grooves in the ancient wood. And that person who remained beyond his view made a small, soft noise of surprise; Vincent thought that he could hear an edge of fear in it. He ignored it, in favor of willing himself to sit up. It was not so much that he couldn't because the strength wasn't there, it was more that he simply had not done so in so long. Every part of him, every muscle finally waking back up as if he had never been asleep at all.

Finally upright, he kept his eyes fixated on the wall before him, fingers loosening on the lip of the wood to slowly drum against it. In his periphery he could see his companion, if one could call them that, sitting on the floor some distance away as if he had pushed the coffin open and decided to not press his luck. He wondered if it was some thrill seeker who had heard about something lurking below Shinra Manor; they may not have given a thought to Vincent Valentine the ex-Turk, but certain truths did become twisted into local legends that passed in hushed whispers among the children. At least the last soul to do so had the decency to leave him alone, be his reason for exploration his own curiosity of what may be hidden inside the old manor or whatever legend he'd heard passed around.

One could have said Vincent was annoyed, and they would have been right. Some part of him hoped that fear would override whatever bravado had possessed this stranger, causing them to turn tail and leave him alone without him having to say a word. But they remained, just on the edge of his vision. He took a moment more, closing his eyes for several seconds so he could tamper down that annoyance and tuck it away to some unused corner of his mind, before he opened them again and turned his head.

And sitting on his knees some distance away, gloveless hands curled into fists in his lap, was that same boy who had last opened his coffin. His eyes, wide and staring, were that same unnatural blue that seemed to have become, if possible, even more striking in the time since their last encounter; their glow was a little more pronounced, casting a gentle light in the dim of the basement that illuminated his pale face. As their gazes met his shoulders tensed and his jaw set, like he was trying to look braver than he felt even as a breath caught in his chest with a visible hitch. With his mouth forming a thin line, the boy said nothing, so Vincent merely watched him.

First and foremost, the boy was soaked. A few strands of dark hair clung to his forehead, where _something_ trickled along the contours of his face until it caught at his jawline, before finally dropping to the floor. The rest of his hair was slicked back, and Vincent was sure that more of whatever it was was dripping into his already saturated sweater. The uniform piece - at least, that's what he assumed it was - already hugged his chest, weighed down until it was nothing more than a second layer of skin. Even in the faint light of the basement he could see a slight shudder running along his skin, the kind of twitching that promised the presence of goosebumps, though if it was from fear or the chill that came with being wet in a drafty basement or some combination of both Vincent couldn't tell.

And there was that smell of mako hanging heavy in the air, in the same way it lingered before the sky split open; a prelude to a storm. It was like the boy had been dunked in a vat of it. The thought flit through Vincent's mind, almost too fast for him to grasp its meaning, bringing with it a rush of horror that shuddered along his spine to come to rest in the pit of his stomach, twisting there like an angry snake. Outwardly he only raised an eyebrow. Under his gaze the boy fidgeted, his shoulders shifting under an invisible weight and his eyes darting away to look at some far point in the empty room, breaking their eye contact while fingers flexed with a nervous energy that rolled off him like the crackling of electricity.

Vincent had a slight recollection of the boy having had spaulders the last time he saw him but they were gone now, making him seem all the smaller in the vast expanse of the basement.

As the boy made his anxious movements Vincent was able to catch a glimpse of something along his inner arm. He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward by only a fraction of a degree. An almost perceptible amount, to see if he could get a better look. Even in the _before_ , his vision had been quite good, but it would seem that it had improved with some significance. And there, along the inner seam of the boy's arm where the main artery sat, was a scar.

It sat red against his pale skin, radiating out from the crook of his elbow to follow along the line of the artery and branching off to follow along other veins; fractals splitting their branching patterns until they tapered into nothing. A quick sidelong glance told Vincent that the other arm bore its mirror. In the heartbeat it took him to notice and categorize this, the boy seemed to realize what Vincent was staring at, and so shifted to hide forearms from view. Vincent leaned back to his original upright position, eyes narrowing under now furrowed brows. And he waited, trying to ignore the anger that was beginning to mingle with the horror that still roiled within him as considerations began to slot into place.

Damn this place.

The boy set his shoulders, lifting ducked head with a firmness to the line of his mouth and a tension to his jaw that spoke of determination; false bravado, given away when his eyes were not quite able to meet Vincent's. He began to take a deep breath, but it soon turned to a cough. A harsh wet thing, forcing him to twist his head to the side and lift fisted hand to mouth, exposing scarred flesh once again. That time Vincent noticed that at the epicenter of the fractal was the sharp red mark, left behind from the injection point of a needle. He spotted a few other pockmarks dotting along his arm, though none had spider web scars emanating from them. After a moment of coughing, he spat a richly green liquid onto the floor, doubling over to brace against his knees as each heaving breath rattled with whatever liquid remained in his system.

He coughed once more and spat again, before he reached a shaking hand to wipe away at his mouth. There was a part of Vincent, one that still clung to what little humanity he had left, that ached. Desired to reach out, to do something. But the more rational part of him won out, and he remained. The boy stared at the liquid - the mako - that clung to his fingers, a new shudder passing through him before he pressed palm to the already saturated fabric of his pants. He steadied himself, for whatever that was worth Vincent supposed, and looked back up. The resolve in his face seemed less sure, now.

"C-can you help me?" The question was soft and it rasped in his throat as if he had not spoken in some time. Vincent did not answer, and as his silence stretched on a look of desperation began to creep in at the edges of his expression. "M-my friend and I woke up here," he went on, voice cracking and failing across syllables, "I don't...I don't know what happened, but I need. I need help. I think?" No reply, more desperation. "My friend has mako poisoning. And I remembered I found you here before, so I..." He trailed off, as if unsure how to finish whatever frenzied thought was running through his head.

The air was thick with that smell of mako and desperation and fear, needling its way through Vincent's senses to touch upon something deep within him that he would rather not think about (he could not tell which side of him it spoke to, and he did not wish to dwell long enough to find out). Eventually, he sighed, though it sounded more like a gentle breath.

"No. I'm sorry."

This must have been a result considered and accepted as a likely outcome, as the boy merely dug teeth into lip and eyes darted to the ground. There was no demand of an explanation, though Vincent could tell the question of "why" was playing in his mind.

"I may do you and your friend more harm than good," he said, speaking of the parts of him that pressed against him, looking for any weak point to pierce through to tear at flesh and bone. "But I wish you luck."

The part of him that clung to his humanity, connecting to that well of compassion swirling deep within him, railed against this callousness. But as with everything else, he smothered it down. It still leaked from its containment to snag at his thoughts with burning thorns, combating against the monstrous things that lingered there.

With a terse nod and a ragged utterance of "all right," the boy braced hands to ground and heaved himself upward. It took effort, muscles not atrophied but nonetheless unused to be under their own power after however long he had been in this place. He stood with arms slightly splayed, finding balance on knees that threatened to buckle beneath his weight, and the turned to leave without another word. He didn't even spare Vincent another look, though Vincent watched him as he took limping - stumbling - steps towards the stairs that would lead up to the main building. Back to his waiting companion.

Lost his footing before he even reached them, staggering and almost crumpling to the ground had Vincent not moved. He was not sure how, or why, but that small part that wished to be something he wasn't managed to claw its way to dominance, and he pulled himself from his resting place to move with speed that should not have been possible for all the time he laid dormant. Without a word, he pressed a steadying hand against the boy's back; the smell of mako dug into his senses to lay barbs in him and it stung at his eyes this close. The boy shook beneath his touch, and Vincent could feel the chill of his soaked clothes even through his glove.

_What are you doing_ , some panicked voice cried, _you'll only make things worse_.

But he couldn't. He couldn't leave this boy so touched in the same way he had been by, he suspected in a way that sent a wave of fury quickly suppressed through him, the very same person. It would haunt him as he returned to his endless slumber, just another failure to his list that never seemed to end.

The lean into him seemed to be unconscious, pressing weight to Vincent's side with a sort of relief. "Thank you," he said. There was an attempt to inject good humor into his words as he asked, "What made you change your mind?"

Vincent made no reply to that, for he was not sure how to articulate a lifetime's worth of guilt, and only said, "Let's retrieve your friend."

The began to ascend the stairs, the boy growing a little more sure with each step now that there was the reliance of someone by his side. "Sorry for opening your coffin, by the way," he said. Thought for a moment, amended, "the last time, I mean. I just...heard some stories."

Vincent said nothing to that, though there was what could have been called a smile trying to quirk at his lips. The boy went on:

"I'm Zack."

A pause, a moment of rumination, and then: "Vincent."

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been languishing in my brain since the remake came out and i was fucking around with some friends. i have more ideas but idk if i'll have the wherewithal to write more of it. might just make a bullet point summary of other ideas i had for this if anyone wants them
> 
> im on tumblr at timelessmulder and twitter at timelessalice


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